Surrey saw, as he came and sat beside him,
that for him earthly sorrow and toil were almost ended.
He had brought some fruit and flowers, and a little book. This last
Abram, having thanked him eagerly for all, stretched out his hand to
examine.
"You see, Mr. Willie, I have not gotten over my old love," he said, as
his fingers closed upon it. "Whittier? 'In War-Time'? That is fine. I
can read about it, if I can't do anything in it," and he lay for a while
quietly turning over the pages. Mrs. Franklin had gone out to do an
errand, and the two were alone.
"Do you know, Mr. Willie," said Abram, putting his finger upon the
titles of two successive poems, "The Waiting," and "The Summons," "I had
hard work to submit to this sickness a few months ago? I fought against
it strong; do you know why?"
"Not your special reason. What was it?"
"I had waited so long, you see,--I, and my people,--for a chance. It
made me quite wild to watch this big fight go on, and know that it was
all about us, and not be allowed to participate; and at last when the
chance came, and the summons, and the way was opened, I couldn't answer,
nor go. It's not the dying I care for; I'd be willing to die the first
battle I was in; but I want to do something for the cause before death
comes."
The book was lying open where it had fallen from his hand, and Surrey,
glancing down at the very poem of which he spoke, said gently, "Here is
your answer, Franklin, better than any I can make; it ought to comfort
you; listen, it is God's truth!
'O power to do! O baffled will!
O prayer and action! ye are one;
Who may not strive may yet fulfil
The harder task of standing still,
And good but wished with God is done!'"
"It is so," said Abram.
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